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8/15 poem

A Serial Killer Writes a Motivational Letter to An Activist

I’m writing this in the basement of an undisclosed apartmentin fill-in-the-blank-city, Georgia. It’s 11:17 pm. In the morning,the envelope will be delivered to a mailbox on the other endof town while my hands are covered in latex gloves. Beforeleaving, I’ll have showered for forty minutes, removing everytraceable scent from my body.

From the outside, one may argue that when choosingyour next victim, it shouldn’t matter where they are, that you’restill a human killing another human but that’s why that personis a professor. Or a mail man.That person may believe there is no difference whether you kill someonein the North or the Southwest, that tears in the eyes are alwaysmade of salt, that there is no subtle shift in the flavor of blood.But you get it. You know the distinct taste of a community’s DNA.Would you really enter Boston with the same smile as San Jose?

You may wonder why I care about you. I don’t.But I fuckin love seals.

Hey. I’ve been watching you, and it hurts. I have seen your eyeson the television screen, wilting under the light of the news camera.That sign you carried was starting to sink down. You gave someoneelse the megaphone. I’m writing this to tell you: I know.There is a point where the killing loses its spark. It stops liftingyour body out of bed. All you’ve been doing is eliminating everythingand everyone that drove your parents to their graves. With every Housebill you’ve petitioned into dust, with every wrongfully convictedsoul for whom you’ve wedged open the bars, you realize you’vebarely changed a thing. It’s like this planet doesn’t breathe unlesssomething’s starving to death.

I told you I’m writing you this letter in the basement of an undisclosedapartment in Georgia. This is true exceptthat this apartment doesn’t have a basement and it’s not in Georgia.What I’m saying is that I haven’t gotten so tired thatI’ve started getting sloppy. You’re screwing up. You’re forgetting crucialvolunteer phone calls. You’re misspelling protest signs, and notin an ironic fashion. Your email keeps getting hacked becauseyour password is a combination of your birthdayand your prom date’s middle name. How uncreative can you be?You didn’t wipe away your tears before they cuffed your wrists.You dropped your sunglasses before they sprayedyour eyes.

You’re fading. You’re betraying your scent to thewolves. When you make them this hungry, friend, what did youthink they would do?

I’m writing you this letter about two blocks from your parents’house. Stop hogging your mom’s lasagna.